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The book opens as the Searcher, a raccoon, returns to Old Tree after a night of scavenging. Belly full, he climbs into the arms of Old Tree and falls deeply asleep. Throughout the day, a powerful storm swells the sea and shakes the ground. Fierce winds threaten to pull Old Tree up from the roots, but can’t. Old Tree holds firm and the Searcher sleeps through the storm, peacefully oblivious.

Old Tree is not simply a “giving” tree. Old Tree is a symbol of strength, protection, shelter, selflessness, and unconditional love. A twist at the end shows the Searcher is not oblivious to Old Tree’s generosity. They seem to honor each other in their nurturing relationship. One can draw parallels to any caring relationship, but particularly parents and children and our relationship with God.

Mr. McPhail tenderly conveys a symbiotic relationship featuring protection, gratitude, acceptance, and mutual kindness.

Encourage new parents, reassure a child, or simply tell someone you’ll always be there for them. Give them a copy of The Searcher and Old Tree.

When I met the young man that I will call Matthew he was lying in a hospital bed in a darkened room, all alone. At first, I hesitated to step into the room because I thought that he might be asleep and even chaplains know that restful sleep ranks right up there with prayer in terms of healing power! But Matthew stirred and acknowledged my presence. I went over to him and, because I noticed that his face was bruised, I asked if he had been in an accident. Matthew nodded and hesitated. I then asked him if he was in pain and again he nodded. But this time, he smiled slightly and said, “it’s really not too bad.” I smiled in return, explaining who I was and why I was there. Matthew told me that he no longer went to church–this did not surprise me because many of the folks that I meet in the hospital no longer belong to a formal church. It was clear to me though that Matthew wanted me to stay with him. He told me that he was “marked”; he very proudly showed me a tattoo on his lower inside arm. It was a rosary with the names of Jesus and Mary in the center. He then pulled his hospital gown down a bit so that I could see that he had a Bible verse tattooed on the shoulder of the other arm. Matthew told me that he had chosen these tattoos a few years ago because they made him feel close to God whenever he looked at them.

I asked Matthew if he felt close to God lying in his hospital bed. He teared up a bit and told me about the accident which had occurred two days before. He had been attending an outdoor concert with a friend. At the end, as he and his friend were getting in the car to return home, a young woman asked for a ride part of the way. His friend who was driving agreed and off they went. The next details were quite fuzzy for Matthew–he recalled the vehicle crashing, then his climb out of the car, staggering down the road a bit where he found the dead body of the young woman. His friend was alive but seriously hurt and had been airlifted to another hospital. Matthew had been brought to the community hospital to have his injuries attended to. Although it was likely that he would physically recover completely, I realized that he knew that he had been “marked” again in a very special way by this experience. He told me that, since the accident, he now wanted to “do good” in his life (not that he had been a “bad” person before this). But now he felt close to a loving God in a new way and, as a result, he wanted to help other people; he wanted to make a difference.

Of course, I wondered if Matthew was simply responding to the trauma of the accident and the fact that his life had been spared while others had not. But, as I explored it further with him, I realized that this tragic accident was possibly a catalyst for a renewed sense of purpose and connection with the divine. Something clearly had shifted for Matthew and he knew it. We continued to talk and I gently suggested that he might explore church communities of faithful people who could support him on his quest. When it was time for me to leave, Matthew and I prayed together. I gave thanks for holy time in a darkened room now marked by new light.

Two days after my encounter with Matthew I drove to Duxbury, MA to begin my first three day Deacons-in-training retreat. Such retreats (on the third weekend of the month) will become a regular part of my life from September to June. Usually the retreats will be held at Bethany House (Sisters of St. Anne) in Arlington Heights. But this first one was scheduled for a retreat house operated by the Sisters of St. Margaret, another Episcopal order of nuns in the diocese. It was wonderful to be near the ocean and it was great to be able to spend time with the other six new Postulants to the Deaconate and two other Postulants who had started a few years ago.

These retreats are time for socializing, prayer, teaching/learning, and practicing the liturgical role of a Deacon. It is time spent in community where our call to be a Deacon continues to be discerned and we continue to be formed in our ministry.

For the Saturday session, the Rev. Anne Fowler from St. John’s in Jamaica Plain (official chaplain to the Deacons) joined us. Anne led us through a series of guided Bible studies. We reflected on particular passages that she had selected, sharing them with one other person in the group and then, as we were comfortable, with the group as a whole. She asked us to engage with each passage from our own experiences, providing us with a series of probing questions to help us go deeper. I found this to be quite a powerful way of being present to the Spirit and to each other. As I shared my own story and listened to the stories of my colleagues, I realized that each of us had been “marked” by particular life passages and circumstances which, though often quite painful, had “opened” us to the loving power of the Divine. Although the details were very different and personal, in many ways the essence of the experience itself was quite similar. Things had shifted for us and would never be the same. And, we all felt compelled to make a difference as a result.

Each of us, of course, at Baptism is “marked” as a child of God. But I am willing to bet that each of us also has “God-tattoos” acquired from those life experiences that made us realize in some new way that God loves us, no matter what. These are the times when things shifted and would never be the same. Sometimes though we get busy and we forget that we are “marked”–that is why it is important to engage with the Biblical stories and with our story and the stories of those around us. They help us to remember that, in the words of Paul, we live and move and have our very being in a God who loves us. And we must make a difference.

Earlier this summer, I suffered a severe sprain to one of my knees. As a result of this injury I walked with greater difficulty than usual and it frightened me because my ability to compensate for injury whether in the guise of Cerebral Palsy or a sprained knee is limited. I was left with an acute sense of urgency for it to heal quickly. But healing for our fallible, vulnerable bodies doesn’t work that way. Change and healing often go hand in hand. While healing always takes place, it sometimes does not take the form we want.

After spraining my knee, I was seen by my primary doctor and an orthopedic specialist, who gave me a set of instructions and a healing regimen. I followed these instructions and after eight long weeks, my knee is now healed. However, the condition of my knee is also changed. It is still painful at times in ways and at times it was not prior to injuring it. My Cerebral Palsy, which I have had since birth, will never heal. It is a reality that no amount of medical intervention can change. I have tried throughout my life with Cerebral Palsy and recently with my knee, to overcome the challenges that these injuries present, work around them when overcoming them is not possible and accept that sometimes I can do neither.

In such situations, acceptance is the only way forward. Such acceptance is the most difficult challenge of all. Part of such acceptance is my understanding that I must do strenuous exercise regularly and watch my weight and what I eat. This is not merely for me because it is well known that all of us must do the same if health is to be maintained.

Within the ongoing debate about healthcare reform, passionate rhetoric from both liberals and conservatives has been voiced, some of which has been extreme, inappropriate and unhelpful. What both these responses represent though is fear of change. All of us want the best medicine available when we are sick. And we all want to heal regardless of the cost.

My father died in April of this year a few months before Senator Edward Kennedy died. My dad, as a result of old age, chronic neglect of his mental and physical heath died destitute. In the final months of his life, he would often make his way to the local hospital emergency room where, regardless of his ability to pay, received compassionate and quality medical care. When Senator Kennedy died recently, he was a powerful and wealthy man who also received compassionate and quality medical care which was covered by comprehensive medical insurance. Yet, the bodies of both these men were equally fallible and succumbed to the vulnerability of old age and sickness that no amount of insurance or medical care could overcome.

Whatever the outcome of the health-care reform debate, I think it is important to remember those things that we all share. We are all human and we are all mortal. We all have a responsibility to care for our minds and bodies as best we can. And, we must care for and love each other as best we can too. Because in the end, each other is all we have in this vast human community where we are born, where we live, grow old, get sick and die as part of our shared and sacred human reality.

Although I have heard these words of the psalmist many times before (and even sung them in the popular hymn, “This is the Day”), I don’t think that I ever paid much attention to them. The words express a nice sentiment, of course, but that seemed to be all there was. Then, in April, I met an elderly woman whom I shall call Gladys. She taught me the power of this portion of Psalm 118 and every day since I have chosen to awaken each morning saying these words as my morning prayer.

Knowing how speeded up our lives often seem in September after the hot and lazy days of summer and how hard it can be to find extended time to pray, I thought that you might find it helpful to have this quick way to “ground” each day in God.

When I first met Gladys she did not even know that I was there. She was in the intensive care unit of the hospital where I have been volunteering as a chaplain. Hooked up to lots of tubes and beeping monitors, she seemed very small and fragile lying in the bed. I said a brief prayer and left.

The next time I visited ICU, Gladys was still there but this time she was awake. Because she was still hooked up to lots of tubes, I was a bit hesitant in entering her room because I did not know how conscious she was. But as I stepped closer, before even introducing myself, Gladys smiled at me. Now, more at ease, I told her who I was and asked her if she had any religious affiliation. She nodded and whispered, “Episcopalian” and I replied, “me, too.” She then added that she had not been able to attend church services for quite some time due to her infirm condition. This clearly made her sad but her pastor and others in the church visited and she remained connected to her spiritual community. We talked a bit about her current medical condition which was quite serious.

Towards the end of our conversation, seeing that she was getting tired and in quite a bit of pain, I asked Gladys if she wanted me to pray with her before I left. She nodded and, before I could say anything else, she proclaimed quite loudly, “This is the day that the Lord has made; Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” It was certainly a bit surprising to hear these words from a patient in intensive care and it caused a few nurses to stop and look into the room, puzzled. I motioned them away and turned back to Gladys. I think that she knew that I was curious and she told me that she recited this portion of Psalm 118 every morning in order to dedicate the actions of her day to God. It was her “habit,” she said. She told me that it was important to have such “habits,” because it was all too easy to get caught up in busyness and, yes, sadness, too, at all the troubles in our lives and, as a result, neglect to celebrate each new day of the Lord’s creation. We talked a bit longer and finally concluded our visit with the Lord’s Prayer (which Gladys also prays every day). As I left the ICU that day, I reflected on my experience with Gladys and gave thanks for the gift of our encounter.

The next morning, as I stretched myself awake and looked out at the morning sunrise, I found myself spontaneously praying, “This is the day that the Lord has made; Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” I started to laugh at how right it seemed and said it again, this time with a bit more gusto. And every day since that is how I have begun my day. Some mornings I may hesitate a bit, especially when I am feeling worried or concerned about something or someone, but, as Gladys predicted, psalm 118:24 has become a “habit” and, so, I pray the words of rejoicing and gladness. My spirit lightens and I move into the day, a blessed day. Sometimes I even find myself repeating the psalm phrase silently while driving in my car or waiting in line or just walking down the street. It has made a real difference in the way that I pay attention each day.

OK, this sounds simple and easy, right? Perhaps you might consider giving it a try yourself this September. There may be other verses from the psalms besides 118:24 or other biblical passages that are especially meaningful to you. Choose something that is easy to remember and that makes your heart sing. Make it your spiritual “habit” and a tangible reminder of God’s daily loving presence in your life. Let me know what happens.

In 2008 the Rev. Forrest Church, an author and a Unitarian minister in New York City, discovered that a cancer first diagnosed in 2006 had returned, and he now had just a few months to live. In a letter to his congregation he wrote, “In more than one respect, I feel very lucky” and promised to sum up his beliefs about love and death, the cornerstones of his long career as a minister, in one last book about this test—“the final exam” as he calls it—of his religious faith.

Love & Death: My Journey Through the Valley of the Shadow is that book—short, candid, and very eloquent. Rev. Church meditates on his experiences with the deaths of family members, including that of his father (Sen. Frank Church of Idaho), friends, and parishioners. He also ponders the public’s fascination with more-dramatic deaths, such as those who perished on the Titanic and the death of a celebrity like Princess Diana. Weaving these observations with portions of his sermons, he explains why he has come to believe that death’s purpose is to help us become compassionate and loving.

This realization came to Rev. Church slowly. He went through a divorce, struggled for years to find ways to comfort grieving parishioners, and became an alcoholic. On the road to sobriety he finally realized he would never be his father’s equal—and didn’t need to be. At that point, his “mantra” for finding balance and confronting his fears became “Want what you have. Do what you can. Be who you are.”

In other words, he advises, count your smallest blessings and be frequently grateful for them; do the little things—not the impossible—to show love and try to make amends if you need to (pick up the phone, write a note); and don’t try to be someone you’re not, but instead use your special gifts and talents realistically. Dying peacefully, he believes, requires living in ways that minimize the amount of unfinished business left in our relationships, by seeking and giving forgiveness and finding ways to love one another.

Rev. Church provides down-to-earth advice for those who are terminally ill, those visiting them in the hospital (in the “Bedside Manners” chapter), and those trying to care for them at home. One surprise for him, for example, was realizing that he had made peace with his death long before his four children and wife had. He knew he had to help them face their sadness and regrets, and he discusses how to have and manage such difficult but ultimately rewarding conversations.

He also writes very movingly about Jesus’ crucifixion, fear, and anguish—and about the essence of resurrection, “the saving gift of Jesus’ love, transcending the power of death.” Church believes that we, too, will transcend death, if only we will try while we still have some time. “Life is a gift, not a given. The path of life is strewn with trapdoors. Every day is a miracle,” he writes. For Church, our life after death hinges on our ability to create—as Jesus did—a legacy of love while we’re living.

This is a practical, wise, and deeply compassionate book. You can also read a (highly condensed) version of the book’s key concepts in Rev. Church’s article “Moving from Crisis to Awakening,” in Business Week. The book is available from Robbins Library in Arlington.

Eternal Spirit,
Earth-maker, Pain bearer, Life-giver,
Source of all that is and that shall be,
Father and Mother of us all,
Loving God, in whom is heaven:
The hallowing of your name echo through the universe!
The way of your justice be followed by the peoples of the world!
With the bread we need for today, feed us.
In the hurts we absorb from one another, forgive us. Your heavenly will be done by all created beings!
Your commonwealth of peace and freedom sustain our hope and come on earth! In times of temptation and test, strengthen us.
From trials too great to endure, spare us.
From the grip of all that is evil, free us.
For you reign in the glory of the power that is love, now and forever.
Amen.

Author Lorna Miser has produced a lovely book, Faith, Hope, Love, Knitting consisting of stories of the people who have touched her life because she had knitting in her hands. Each story is a self-contained meditation on someone who has nourished her faith, hope, and love. Lorna believes each person has crossed her path for a reason and as she reflects on the meaning of each encounter, a knitting project is inevitably involved. Accompanying each story is a pattern for something she was either knitting at the time, or inspired to knit later. The twenty projects are beautifully photographed and the aesthetics of the book are worthy of the author who has contributed so much beauty through her exquisite hand-painted yarns. The stories of her encounters will inspire you and get you to thinking about people who have touched your life while you knit. Worth breaking the usual boundaries between church and yarn, just this once!

My sister’s green cotton sleeveless sweater—gorgeous spring yarn—last spring! It had been sitting since Thanksgiving when my mother sewed up the side seams. All it needed was for me to pick up and knit the neck and armhole bands. I had never done that before so I was stalling. One night, bam! Picked up those stitches, purled a row and cast that puppy off. Next day blocked it. Done! Finished! The baby surprise jacket that same mother had closed the shoulder and sewn buttons on was nearly done. It needed a little collar. Picked up those stitches, blasted through a few rows of garter, cast off. Bam! Done! Finished. (Need a baby for it but that’s not something I can finish.)

The first lace effort, a scarf in the gorgeous hand-painted mohair and silk from Blue Hill—most expensive yarn I’ve ever bought? It had about four inches to go. Bam! A few episodes of Glenn Close and the Cheers bartender being evil-doers on “On Demand” TV and it was done. Finished. Don’t know who it’s for but it’s done! Soft, variegated, grey, silky soy on its way to becoming a honeycomb scarf? Its journey has ended! And of course, the sweater. Gorgeous blue-violet merino. Easy stitch that was quite interesting for the first 1000 or so rows. Almost done but needed several more inches on the sleeves, which were being knit together on one needle. A snowstorm, a school cancellation, and bam! Cast off those sleeves. Collar on the way. Nearly done. Will it fit? We’ll see. It’ll be done! It’ll fit somebody.

Why? What has prompted this fit of finishing? Could it be that are a few other things that I would like to be done with and cannot be? Things that are not yet finished and will go on for awhile—much longer that I had asked for or imagined? They are moving at their own speed and I cannot rush them or even speed them up very much. They are going to take the time they take. If only I could cast them off. So I suppose it is quite satisfying to finish what I can, be done with some things I could control and have beautiful, useful woolies to show for it. A consolation. A sign. Maybe it only feels like forever and if I just keep at it, eventually, I can cast off and move on.

– Pearl Tinker

I once spent a summer day at the mountain home of a well-known literary woman and editor.  She lamented the absence of birds about her house. I named a half-dozen or more I had heard or seen in her trees within an hour -

the indigo-bird, the purple finch,

the yellowbird, the veery thrush,

the red-eyed vireo, the song sparrow.

‘Do you mean to say you have seen or heard all those birds while sitting here on my porch?” she inquired.

“I really have,” I said.

“I do not see them or hear them,” she replied, “and yet I want to very much.”

“No,” said I; “you only want to want to see and hear them. You must have the bird in your heart before you can find it in the bush.

From “The Art of Seeing Things” by John Burroughs.